Page 1 of The Art of Scandal

CHAPTER ONE

When your husband of thirteen years sends a close-up of his erect penis, you should not, under any circumstances, ask him why he sent it. Rachel Abbott didn’t know much about sexting etiquette, but she was fluent in middle-aged male fragility. It was the theme of the birthday party currently rattling the walls of her home. A massive bowl of pimento cheese sat congealing on her kitchen island, while a dozen lawyers in her living room got wasted on single malt scotch in red Solo cups. Her house was filled with food she didn’t eat and people she barely knew, because Matt was turning forty and needed balloons and streamers to blunt the sharp edges of his mortality.

She shouldn’t have let Faith talk her into such a big phone. Rachel had trusted her twenty-one-year-old daughter’s claim that it was great for watching movies, but it also made the penis inescapable. The detail of the high-resolution image kept her frozen, holding an icing knife in one hand and dick pic in the other, with the muffled beat of “Rump Shaker” as a jeering soundtrack in the background.

Maybe it wasn’t him. She tried to remember the last time she’d seen Matt’s penis up close but could only picture him drunkenly peeing against their neighbor’s crape myrtle after last year’s Fourth of July barbecue. Maybe one of his law firm buddies had stolen his phone when he wasn’t looking. Abbott and Associates had an aging frat boy vibe that eroded the elegance of every event. When she’d sent out the invitations for Matt’s party, one of the senior partners had offered to bring a keg.

Rachel wiped away the buttercream smeared on the screen and tapped the photo to zoom in. No, it was definitely Matt’s penis. She had always thought it looked like something out of a textbook—perfectly shaped, and Goldilocks-sized. Not too big. Not too little. The text was probably a dig at their anemic sex life. Or a bumbling request for a birthday blow job. Both possibilities left her annoyed and wilted. She’d been standing for twelve hours straight and had no intention of spending the rest of the night trading pithy sex memes or getting rug burns on her knees.

The kitchen door swung open, and Matt poked his head inside. The phone slipped from her hand and landed facedown with an ominous crack that made her wince. She could almost hear Faith groan, “I told you to get a case, Mom.”

“Sorry, I forgot,” Matt said. “Where are the cups again?” The overhead light glinted against his glasses, obscuring his eyes. His pale skin was mottled red, and his short dark hair was damp at the temples, like he had just come back from a run.

Or just had sex. That was also his post-orgasm hair, complete with splotchy complexion. He used to tease her about how different they looked after they came—him a strawberry-colored mess, her natural curls a frizzy halo while her dark skin glowed with a dusky pink hue. Now he gave her a puzzled look before stepping into the kitchen. She studied his face as he approached, grappling with the image of him masturbating in the middle of his own birthday party.

“Where are what?” She picked up the knife and searched his cake for a flaw, but it was perfect. Matt’s name was written in iced calligraphy she had practiced a dozen times to get right.

“The plastic cups.” He shoved both hands into his trouser pockets. They were the same as in the picture—charcoal gray, light Italian wool. Despite a political platform that included the tax policy version of “eat the rich,” Matt refused to wear anything that wasn’t custom. She’d once gently suggested rethinking his wardrobe when he ran for mayor four years ago. He had brushed her off. “You really think the people in this town would vote for a guy in J.Crew khakis?”

“Hey, isss-everything-okay?” Matt asked, with each word stumbling into the next. Focusing on her face took effort. He was drunk. That had to be why he sent it. Peer pressure plus too many beers had led to a tipsy lapse in judgment.

But wasn’t he supposed to reveal the joke, laugh, and tell her to stop being so uptight? She would laugh too, and they would keep pretending it hadn’t been a year since they had sex. He wasn’t supposed to stand there, blinking through his glasses, waiting for an explanation for the weird air between them.

“I’m fine,” she said, though it was directed more at the anxious knot in her stomach than him. She needed him to leave. The kitchen was usually her haven—the room he treated like the backstage area of a play he was invited to attend. “Go enjoy your party. I’ll find the cups.”And serve the food. And send the thank-you notes. And deal with the fallout from whatever you’ve been doing while the senior partners were in the next room.

He sighed and gave her that look she hated—exasperated but patient—resigned to another teachable moment. “It’s your party too. Why are you hiding in the kitchen? People are starting to notice.”

“I need to finish the cake.” She slid her knife along one side for emphasis.

“No one cares about the cake. They probably won’t even eat it.”

Her face heated. He was so good at that—making something benign, like baking a cake for a birthday party, feel like a childish mistake. “I don’t care if they eat it.” She put the knife down and untied her apron. “It exists. That’s all that matters.”

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged. “Are you coming out or not?”

“Do you like it at least?”

He sighed again, flicked his eyes toward the door, and pressed his lips into a smile that looked more like a gassy grimace. “It’s perfect. Like always. Now come on.” He waved a lazy hand at the cake on his way out. “Bring it with you.”

The silence he left behind was smothering. Their snippy argument was nothing new. Yesterday it was about paint colors, the shade of blue she’d chosen for his office. “It’s too dark. How am I supposed to work in a room that feels like a cave?” That was who they were. Snippy arguments. Cold pimento cheese. Not sexy text messages at inappropriate moments. He’d never proposition her this way.

Rachel flipped her phone back over. The screen was covered in webbed cracks, but the picture was still visible. She sent a reply.

I don’t think you meant to send this to me.

She put her phone down and dipped her finger into a bowl of leftover icing, careful to avoid the red velvet crumbs in the center. She hated red velvet. The kitchen door swung open and banged against the opposite wall. Matt rushed inside, his panicked eyes darting from her face to her abandoned phone. “Jesus.” He shoved both hands in his hair. “God, I’m so sorry.”

Rachel held his gaze and slowly pushed the cake over the counter’s edge. It fell, facedown, into a bloodred pile at his feet.

Two weeks earlier, Rachel had been perched on the edge of her living room sofa while she stared deeply into Matt’s eyes and promised to be less of a selfish bitch. Or, more accurately, decided that keeping her mouth shut was the best way to avoid another surprise marriage counseling session. According to Shania Fariss—their wispy marriage-maintenance specialist—their relationship’s primary area for improvement was Rachel’s lack of gratitude.

“Focus on what your partner gives you,” Shania advised. “Not what you think is lacking.” Whatever annoying habit of Matt’s that Rachel had planned to mention immediately deflated into something so small and petty, it didn’t deserve to be spoken out loud. Instead, they focused on the very important fact that Rachel was not, and had never been, very good at being his wife.

A good wife would not have slipped away during her husband’s Rising Star Award speech at the Virginia bar luncheon to send their driver to Popeye’s Chicken, causing political commentators to speculate whether a white man with a Black wife was a fan of dark meat. According to Matt, her lack of judgment said something deeper about their marriage aside from Rachel’s aversion to underseasoned poultry. The small scandal had called for another counseling session—their third in two months.

“I’m grateful for my family. My daughter.” Rachel paused, and then quickly added, “The Abbotts of course,” because everyone thought she should be grateful for them. Matt had made her one oftheAbbotts, a family so royal adjacent that the press had dubbed Rachel “the DC Meghan Markle.” And like Meghan, any hint of dissatisfaction with her royal status would be met with skepticism and, occasionally, open hostility. Who wouldn’t be grateful to wake up each day swaddled in downy white privilege?

In truth, Rachel was grateful for not worrying about whether her bills were paid or there was food in the refrigerator. She was thankful for the car that always started and insurance that swallowed medical bills like magic. But Matt and Shania wouldn’t understand any of that. They couldn’t relate. He was born with money, and Shania, with her Wellesley pedigree, would probably launch into a lecture about the pitfalls of focusing on material things as if they were discussing a designer shoe collection instead of basic human needs.

---